


Bump in the Night

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Humour, M/M, Meet Cute Prompts, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:43:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU.  Aramis' new job as ghost tour guide isn't going terribly well and he asks his best friend Porthos for some help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bump in the Night

"Aramis, _please_ don't make me do this," begged Porthos. "I’ve got one night off this week and I don't want to spend it wandering around a grotty old house in the dark." His job as assistant manager at a supermarket was a dull slog. He’d been working holiday cover for the most of the month and had been looking forward to this miniscule break from work for days.

Aramis gazed at him soulfully. "But I need your help," he pleaded. "My theatre company’s about to go bust and if these ghost tours don't start making money I'll soon be out of a job. I'll have nothing to pay the rent with and I’ll have to catch rats to roast over a guttering candle."

"You're so overdramatic," grumbled Porthos.

"Precisely why I'm an actor."

"An out of work actor," Porthos kindly pointed out.

"So, will you come along and boost the numbers? Please say yes." Aramis planted a smacker of a kiss on his cheek.

"You've got actor friends playing ghosts, haven't you?"

"I might have," admitted Aramis sheepishly.

"And now you've got friends playing customers to boot," said Porthos to which Aramis shrugged. "Is anyone tonight actually _paying_ for the tour?"

"Quite a few," said Aramis. "You'd be surprised. Treville says he's taken a load of bookings. I just need you to _ooh_ and _ahhh_ and jump in all the right places."

"Oh, for god's sake, I suppose so," groaned Porthos. "As long as you buy me dinner on the way."

"One fillet mignon coming up," said Aramis, throwing a grateful arm around Porthos' shoulders.

An hour later, after stopping off at a McDonald's drive thru, they arrived at a decidedly non spooky chateau twenty miles out of Paris, just as night was beginning to fall.

"Damn, we've got some eager beavers here," said Aramis, stopping the car as soon as he spotted looking a small group already waiting at the doors, armed with torches and cameras, some of them carrying an array of scientific equipment.

"What do they think this is?" muttered Porthos. "A bloody Star Trek convention."

"Shhh," hissed Aramis. "The Chateau la Fère is steeped in mysterious tragedy and has a history of supernatural sightings."

"Shut up. I'm not one of your punters," said Porthos. "I'll sneak out here and arrive as one of the geeks and then you can turn up as Van Helsing in a Mini."

"It's not a vampire hunt," snorted Aramis. 

"Whatever," said Porthos with a decided lack of interest as he slammed the car door shut. It was bloody cold tonight and he was glad he'd brought his hip flask with him.

"Hello," he said as he approached the mob of believers. "Here to bust some ghosts?"

A young man immediately rounded on him. "We're here to record evidence of supernatural events," he said. "If you've turned up just to mock then you can go home right now."

"D'Artagnan!" said the girl standing next to him. "I'm so sorry. He takes this very seriously. I'm Constance, by the way."

"Porthos. Pleased to meet you." He then turned to d'Artagnan. I'm sorry for being flippant. I won't spoil your evening..." of Scooby Doo mystery solving. He renamed them Fred and Daphne in his head and smiled happily.

Introducing himself to the rest of the party--who were mostly in their thirties and lived at home with their mothers--he then looked up at the building, which was more imposing now that the sun was gone, rising up out of the ground like a ghostly edifice. Just for a second he saw a flicker of light and a face appear in one of the windows, but after a swift double take it was gone.

"You saw something, didn't you?" said d'Artagnan in an accusatory tone.

"Chill out, kid. I saw a curtain move that's all."

"There are no curtains here. It's all shutters," said d'Artagnan triumphantly. "Which room?"

"I don't know, somewhere around there." Porthos stabbed his finger at the west side of the first floor.

"Not Milady's bedroom then," said Constance and d'Artagnan looked disappointed.

"Mesdames et messieurs," said a very familiar voice. "Welcome to Chateau la Fère. Be prepared for a night that will chill you to your bones and leave you afraid of the dark for the remainder of your years."

There were sounds of intrigue from the crowd. Porthos had to admit he was impressed with Aramis' delivery, but couldn't quite comprehend why his friend was dressed in a frock coat and top hat.

"Just get on with it," said d'Artagnan and Porthos noticed Constance elbow him in the ribs.

"It seems there are still a few people to arrive," said Aramis, consulting his list. He then looked at his watch and made an executive decision. "However it's cold and I don't see why we should stand around waiting for them."

Throwing open the double doors he ushered the group inside. "Now have your torches at the ready because, as a result of the malevolent spirit activity, La Fère has not been lived in for many years and therefore has no electric lighting."

Porthos noticed the partially concealed modern switches on the wall and suspected the blackout was more to do with a debt owed to the power company, but he wasn’t here to rain on Aramis' parade.

"The chateau was built in fifteen sixty five by the de la Fères, a family whose lineage can be traced directly back to King Francis the second."

As Aramis waffled on about the history of the place Porthos gazed around the room, quite sad that somewhere as impressive was left entirely unloved.

There was a knock at the door and several of the ghost hunters jumped a mile. "Ah, the late comers," said Aramis. "You go through to the main gallery and have a look around while I catch them up on the story."

As they entered the dark corridor an unearthly wailing assaulted their ears and a figure, dressed in a flimsy nightgown, could be seen in the torch beams at the far end of the corridor. Cameras were fired off too late as she seemingly vanished into nowhere.

Porthos leant against the wall and sighed. Adele was a terrible actress when Aramis had been going out with her and, since the break up, her stage skills had apparently got worse.

"Dreadful, isn't it?" said a rather lovely voice from next to him. "Why people pay for this shit I will never understand."

Porthos looked sideways at the man standing next to him. He was bearded and elegant with an air of detached amusement about him as he stood with arms folded across his chest which was covered only with a thin shirt.

"Aren't you cold?" asked Porthos.

"I'm supposed to do a turn later and try and throttle my wife, but in the meantime I like to lurk at the back and watch the saddos."

Porthos was profoundly pleased that he didn't qualify.

When Aramis returned, listening enthralled to the stories of the ghostly figure then telling them the heart breaking tale of the woman in white, Porthos' new companion snorted with laughter. "He _is_ funny. I keep expecting him to show everyone into a room to see the Elephant Man. This is Victorian sideshow at its worst."

"He's my best mate," growled Porthos. 

"Oh, sorry."

"He's awful in a very impressive way," admitted Porthos with a grin. "I like the way he mixes up the entire history of the world to add colour to his ghost stories."

"Very varied," agreed the man. "I'm Athos, by the way."

"Porthos."

"Oh, it's my favourite bit now," said Athos. "The Haunted Bedroom: scene of a grisly murder. Entirely untrue of course."

"Of course. It's far too nice a room for anything gruesome," said Porthos peering inside. "I bet it has lovely views out to the garden."

"It does indeed."

"Will you stop making all these inane comments," said d'Artagnan, wheeling around to glare at Porthos." 

"Sorry," said Porthos. "We were just saying what a nice room it was."

D'Artagnan looked at him strangely and then studied his meters.

"That young man has issues," muttered Athos. "I imagine he's lost someone and is trying to find proof that they're still with him in spirit. Sad really."

"How do you know?" whispered Porthos.

"You see a lot of it in this game," said Athos sympathetically. "Electromagnetic meters and Tesla machines are the modern equivalent of seances and ouija boards."

Porthos shrugged. "I suppose they are," he said, catching an angry look from Aramis who was obviously building up to a big moment.

"In sixteen twenty three Olivier and his wife Anne were caught in a terrible fire. The villagers raced up to the castle to try and rescue their beloved Lord and Lady. They managed to douse the flames and save the house but the pair of lovers were overcome by smoke and died, locked together for eternity."

"Bollocks," muttered Athos, with his arms folded again. "This next part is really funny though." 

Out of the bedroom now Porthos looked up to the galleried landing to see the hammiest of all hams, Aramis' friend Bonnaire, racing towards Adele and trying to save her from an imaginary fire as they disappeared in a cloud of white.

"Was that dry ice?" he asked Athos.

"Smoke machine," said his new friend. "Otherwise it would cascade downwards and look ridiculous. At least your friend has thought it through a little."

Personally Porthos was of the opinion that it was more to do with luck than judgement, but he still felt very defensive. "Aramis needs this job," he said quietly. "If the ghost tours go under then he's in deep shit financially."

"Ah," said Athos. "Someone else said the same to me recently. Look, Porthos, I'd better get ready for my big entrance. It's been really nice talking to you."

"Likewise," said Porthos, wishing he'd bothered to ask for a phone number before the man had disappeared off into the darkness. He was attractive and intelligent with a great sense of humour: all the things Porthos wanted in a boyfriend. Not a problem though because he could always ask Aramis to hook them up afterwards.

He was still thinking about this as they were heading up the stairs when there was a sudden commotion a few feet away from them on the landing.

"Why do you find it impossible to do one thing I ask, Anne? We're stuck fast in hell together so we may as well try and get along," said Athos as he chased after an unfamiliar dark haired woman. Unusual, thought Porthos, having assumed that Aramis had, by now, screwed his way through the _entire_ female section of the Really Awful Theatre Company.

"Because I despise you, husband, and the only joy I have in death is making you suffer," she said vindictively. "Why we're still here I'll never know." Slapping him on the cheek she turned about face and disappeared straight through a panelled wall with Athos striding after her, the whole performance happening right in front of the collective eyes of the group.

"You're a liar, a murderess and a whore," he shouted as he too vanished into nowhere.

"And you love me," came a disembodied voice.

"I love you as you love me," came the answer.

It was brilliantly done and Porthos was left breathless. "How did you manage that, mate?" he said to Aramis. 

"I, I, I didn't," whispered Aramis.

"It was the arguing couple," said d'Artagnan, white faced with Constance latched tightly onto his arm. "They've been manifesting here since the seventeenth century."

The geeks were mumbling about EMA's and UV's and Notorious BIG's and Porthos couldn't see what the fuss was about.

"That bloke, Athos, now he _is_ a good actor," he said. "He's funny too. I was chatting to him all night. Actually, I was wondering if you could give me his phone number, mate." 

The longer Porthos spoke the more everyone stared at him, until he was starting to feel like an exhibit in one of those aforementioned Victorian freak shows.

"His number?" he repeated in a small voice.

"Talking to him?" gasped Aramis.

"What did he say?" d'Artagnan demanded.

"Er." Porthos was getting more and more confused. "He called you all a bunch of saddos, but he was sorry for you, d’Artagnan, because he thought you'd lost someone close to you."

"My dad died last year," whispered d'Artagnan, slumping into a salon chair. "Fucking hell! You're the first person I've ever met who's actually interacted with a ghost."

Ghost? Porthos stumbled backwards until he hit the wall. "Stop taking the piss."

"We're not, my friend," said Aramis, coming over to lay a comforting hand on his forearm. 

Constance showed Porthos the video footage which showed two spectral figures where Athos and Anne had been standing right in front of them arguing.

"I thought you were just being annoying making those weird comments all night," said d'Artagnan, still as white as a sheet.

"Not one of you could see or hear him?" Porthos looked around the torchlit group in bewilderment.

"Not until he manifested on the landing," said d'Artagnan.

"But I wanted to go out with him," said Porthos, taking a deep swig from his flask. "He's the first person I've fancied in ages and it turns out he's bloody dead."

"Oh, Porthos," said Aramis with a massive amount of sympathy in his voice, which, to be honest, didn't last for long. "On the plus side, we have documented evidence of the paranormal so let's go and do some more ghost hunting, people," he said, practically vibrating with enthusiasm, his words accompanied by a rumble of excitement from his followers.

"I'm staying here," said Porthos, taking over d'Artagnan's seat. "I've had enough spooks for one night."

"Will you be alright?" asked Aramis. "We still have the entire east side to explore."

"I'm not exactly afraid of ghosts," snorted Porthos. "Seeing as I wanted to fuck the first one I encountered."

The group disappeared off down the corridor in an excitable multi armed beam of torch light and Porthos was left alone with his thoughts.

"The cat is out of the bag then?" said a mellifluous voice from beside him.

"It bloody well is," snapped Porthos feeling a little hard done by as he swung his torch at Athos. "You could have told me."

"I was enjoying our conversation and, to be honest, it's not the easiest of subjects to raise," said Athos drily.

"I suppose not,"agreed Porthos. "But how can you be a ghost?" he said confused all over again. "You know about Tesla machines and the Elephant Man."

"I'm dead not illiterate," smirked Athos. "And we do have a television here."

"We?"

"There's someone I want you to meet," said Athos. "Come with me."

"Ow," yelped Porthos as he instinctively attempted to follow Athos through the wall. "Doors. I need doors. Open ones at that."

"Sorry," said Athos. "Over here."

He led the way past a roped off barrier and through a door marked private and then, once they were inside, to Porthos’ embarrassment, he promptly disappeared. 

The room within was small, lit by actual light bulbs and did indeed have a telly in the corner. It also contained a solitary man who was hunched over an old fashioned typewriter. 

"What in the name of God?" he said, looking up.

"I'm really sorry," said Porthos whose mouth was gaping open in amazement because the pissed off speaker was a carbon copy of Athos. Other than stubble replacing the beard and a rather dodgy taste in clothing, they could be the same person. 

"This part of the house is quite specifically signed as private."

"Someone brought me here," said Porthos and then then he leapt forward and poked him on the arm.

"Ouch!" 

"Sorry. Just had to be certain you weren't corporeally challenged."

The man groaned and held his head in his hands. "I take it you've met my arch nemesis namesake of a dead relative then. The irritating pain in the arse, as I like to call him."

The last phrase was shouted rather than spoken and Porthos was certain he heard a dry laugh somewhere in the distance. "Yeah." So this one was an Athos too. "I spent most of this evening talking to him. It was going great until I found out he was deceased."

"Ha!" The man snorted with laughter and looked up properly for the first time since Porthos had stumbled in. "You wanted to hook up with him? No chance there, matey, even if he _had_ a body. He and Milady are still mad about each other. The only reason I'm afraid of their bedroom is because of the amount of times I've seen them at it. Dead relatives having relations is a terrifying sight."

He smirked, his blue eyes sparkled and Porthos--a habitual sucker for love--was smitten. "Fancy a drink?" he said, passing over his hip flask.

"I fancy you more," Athos said and lunged unexpectedly at Porthos who dropped the flask in surprise.

They fell back onto the sofa, kissing frantically and scrabbling with hems and buttons and zips.

"Oh fuck," groaned Porthos, his cock rising to the challenge of an unexpected bunk up.

"Damn it, no condoms," muttered Athos, shoving their jeans and pants down and grinding against Porthos. "Have you?"

"No. Didn't think I'd need them," growled Porthos against Athos' lips.

They were both so wet and slippery it was already heaven and Porthos moaned into Athos' mouth in between the flurry of gorgeous kisses that kept happening. 

"I don't usually-" he said and then they fell off the sofa and landed in a twisted heap on the floor. "Are you okay?"

"Couldn't be better," gasped Athos, reaching down to grab a handful of sticky cocks and pull them off together.

"Fucking hell," said Porthos, looking down to watch the action and then coming in an unexpected flare of excitement which set Athos off too. Seconds later they were supine on the floor, staring up at the cobwebby ceiling and gasping for breath.

"I'm glad we didn't time that," said Porthos.

"It was less than five minutes," smirked Athos. "A lot less I think."

"It's been a while," admitted Porthos.

"For me too."

They looked at each other and laughed.

It turned out that there was a bedroom next door, but as Athos explained later, when they were in the shower together, his brain had only been functioning on one level at the time. 

"Shall we try this again?" he said, after they'd dried off. "Maybe a little slower this time."

"Sounds like a plan," grinned Porthos as he lay on the bed and Athos traced the lie of his cock with the tip of his tongue then nuzzled into his crotch with a soft moan of delight. "I'm Porthos, by the way."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Athos." His words were muffled as he explored all of Porthos' fun parts with his mouth.

An annoyingly familiar ringtone started up from the floor and Porthos fumbled one handed to find his phone, unwilling to disturb Athos from the task in hand, or rather mouth.

"What?" he answered abruptly.

"Where are you?" said Aramis. "We've been looking everywhere. Why haven't you been answering your phone?"

Athos began to lick delicate kisses over the shaft of Porthos' cock. "Nngh," Porthos said. 

"What?" questioned Aramis.

"You must have called when we were in the shower," said Porthos, recovering his composure.

"Shower? Are you at home? You're not boning dead guys are you? Porthos? Speak to me. Are you possessed by an entity?"

Not yet, thought Porthos, but the way Athos was gently suckling at the head of his cock, teasing his balls and then stroking his shaft, he probably soon would be. "I have to go, Aramis," he groaned. "Go home. I'll see you tomoooooohhhhh my God."

The spunk was miraculously rising and, determined to put up a better show this time, Porthos broke free and swooped on Athos, swallowing him down then throating him with absolute pleasure. 

Athos, however, was determined and fought hard to get his mouth back on Porthos' cock. "I want to suck you off," he said with a grin as he pushed Porthos back onto the mattress.

It probably would be easier just to take turns, but both of them were enjoying the tussle. After switching back and forth a few more times they finally settled down to a slow sixty nine, taking it easy and sucking each other off to a climax, Athos coming first then finishing Porthos off with the addition of his hand.

"We're getting better at it," said Athos, pulling back the bedclothes for Porthos to join him after he'd been for a piss.

"A bit more practice and we'll be sweet," grinned Porthos as he climbed in next to him and snuggled up close. "This place is bloody freezing."

"Can't afford heating," said Athos. "Can't afford to stay here much longer because of the new property taxes and if I sell it three quarters of the money goes to the government." He sighed. "I'll hate to be known as the loser de la Fère who was forced to sell the family home, but I can't see another way out." He looked apologetically at Porthos. "Sorry. Didn't mean to offload all my problems onto you."

"What about flogging the artwork?"

"Sold it already," said Athos gloomily. "The stuff downstairs is all fake. I'm even trying, in desperation, to write a history of the house and family but it's all so grim." 

"Have you ever met Aramis, the bloke who does the tours?" asked Porthos, the seed of a brilliant idea germinating in his brain.

"No, only M Treville."

"Well, have I got a plan for you."

 

\---

 

Two years on, life at La Fère had changed significantly for the better.

Porthos' idea was simple but beautiful. He’d realised that, in addition to well publicised YouTube evidence of ghosts, all the chateau needed to liven it up was the addition of a Really Awful Theatre Company to ham up some good old fashioned spooky stories. 

The plays were performed in the grounds during the summer season and on a purpose built stage in the house in the winter months and were a bodice ripping success with ghost hunters and culture vultures alike. Aramis loved every minute of it: the crowds and the adulation even more than having a regular income.

Athos had been persuaded to put his extensive knowledge and knicker melting speaking voice to good use, showing groups around the house and describing, in vivid yet accurate detail, the tragic history of the de la Fère family. 

After the tours were over, he cunningly revealed that all the paintings were reproductions done by a local artist Remy whose original work could be purchased in the gift shop run by Constance and d'Artagnan, for whom Athos senior still held a soft spot.

Talking of ghosts, said Musketeer and Milady made occasional guest appearances and only once did Athos have to alter the course of the tour, pausing in horror at the bedroom door and leaving the visitors wondering with excitement, what dreadful thing was contained within.

M Treville, a born organiser, made sure everything behind the scenes ran like clockwork and Porthos gave up his boring manager's job to pour heart and soul into restoring the castle and grounds. After all it was his home now.

"Who'd've thought a thirty second frot on the floor would lead to this?" he said as he and Athos lay contentedly in bed, drinking tea and reading the papers.

"You're still exaggerating," smirked Athos. "It was twenty seconds at most. Were we both that sex starved back then?"

"You tell me. You're the one who literally jumped on me from a distance." Porthos laughed and finished his tea.

"I did," admitted Athos. "I'm very glad I did." He checked his watch. "You up for a bit more practice?"

Porthos answered as succinctly as he knew how, leaning over and nibbling at Athos' neck, the kisses descending over his bare chest. "I love summer when it doesn't take me hours to find you under three pairs of pyjamas, an overcoat and some hiking socks."

Minutes later they were gloriously naked and coupled together on top of the quilt with Porthos on all fours and Athos thrusting in and out of him.

"That's my boy," said a complementary voice. "I knew you'd be a giver rather than a receiver."

"Bloody hell," groaned Porthos.

"Bugger off," said Athos.

"That would be you rather than me I think you'll find." Athos senior chuckled. "I've been thinking," he continued. "Maybe I could do a bit of sword fighting in one of the plays. I'm sure I could find another dead Musketeer to have a duel with. I was quite renowned back in the day."

"I know you were, but perhaps you could fuck off for now and we'll talk about it later," said Athos, glaring at his great great great whatever grandad.

"And we take turns, by the way," Porthos told the ghost. "I often top."

"I'm sure you do, big man," smirked Athos senior as he disappeared into the bedroom wall.

"I do," said Porthos indignantly.

"I know, love," soothed Athos. "I'm here when you do it, remember. Do you want a turn now?"

"No," sulked Porthos. "I was enjoying getting a good seeing to until that pain in the arse interrupted us." 

The last part of the sentence was shouted rather than spoken and Porthos was sure he heard a dry laugh somewhere in the distance, but all that ceased to matter when Athos slammed back inside him, fingers digging into his hips to herald the beginning of a lengthy fuck session in which they proceeded to have each other every way possible for the next couple of hours.

It was true: practice did make perfect.


End file.
